


Human Error

by phoenixreal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF Lestrade, Bisexual Lestrade, Caring Lestrade, Confused Sherlock, Demisexual Sherlock, Domestic Violence, Drug Induced Hypnosis, Emotional Manipulation, Extremely Dubious Consent, Flashbacks, Greg Lestrade & John Watson Friendship, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Nightmares, Non-Consensual Drug Use, PTSD Sherlock, Protective Mycroft, Rape/Non-con Elements, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-17
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-12 19:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1197450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixreal/pseuds/phoenixreal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU post Sign of Three. While John's away on honeymoon, Lestrade requests some help with an American Tourist's death. Sherlock meets up with an American CIA agent, brother to the dead man. What follows leaves Lestrade wondering what the hell is going on when he finds the agent living with Sherlock at Baker Street, and Sherlock seemingly not himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hitman

Mary and John were gone on their honeymoon, and Sherlock was alone at the flat at Baker Street. He was actually quite surprised how lonely he got so quickly once the wedding was done and he left. He was watching everything he cared about change before his very eyes, and he couldn't help but feel like nothing would be the same again. He knew that Mary wasn't trying to take John away, he really did, even though his stupid, annoying _sentimental_ heart seemed to think differently. It was the only explanation for the damnable ache in his chest that didn't seem to want to go away no matter how much he tried.

He'd already solved six cold cases before Lestrade texted him with a case that was interesting enough to even bother with. It was the death of an American tourist, it appeared, but it was Sherlock's favorite kind of case. It was a locked room murder. He felt the rush of excitement that came with a new case, but then it died on his lips because he almost called out to John. Oh, for pity's sake, he had to get this under control. John was _married_ now. John had a life _without_ Sherlock, and he had to simply get used to it. And soon, he would have a _baby_ and that meant even less time for Sherlock in John's life. He'd really and truly have done anything to have John stay with him for the rest of his life.

But it simply wouldn't happen, and he had to get on with his own life. And it was either cases or he was going to find his way down to a heroin den before the week was out so he could numb his mind. And he had made a promise to John, and it would break his heart if he broke it. And even if John was moving further away from him, he wouldn't change anything as long as John was happy. In the end, that was all that mattered, wasn't it? Of course. No matter his own pain.

He vaguely wondered about what exactly had gone on with Anderson after he'd left. He honestly hadn't bothered to ask, but it was obvious that guilt and shame had eaten the man alive. Donovan was still Donovan, but she had far less to say to him than before he'd left. It seemed that she shared some of the guilt that Anderson had. So he entered the hotel room and nodded to Lestrade despite the foul mood he was in.

The dead man was from America, obviously, wore only American labels, wore American cologne as well, and had an American flag tattooed to the inside of his ankle. Well, that was a strange spot for a man, Sherlock thought. He'd been shot once through the heart, through and through, the bullet had embedded in the wall behind him. Close range, high powered hand gun. And not a thing out of place, and locked room with no one swiping a keycard for entry in the last twenty four hours after the victim had checked into the room. The man was fairly well kept, nice suit, silk tie, and manicured fingernails. His shoes were worn though recently shined, so he wasn't rich, or perhaps he liked to be comfortable…

Sherlock grunted and looked up. "For godssakes," he muttered. "Really?"

Lestrade followed his eyes up to the vent in the ceiling. "They went through the ventilation system?"

"This is like some bad action movie," Sherlock commented, pulling a chair over and shining his flashlight on the vent cover. All four screws were gone and it was held in place from the other side by bungee that pulled it tight to the opening. "They went through the vent."

"Seems appropriate for someone going after Charles there," came a voice from the doorway. Sherlock turned to look from his position stretched up looking into the vent shaft to see a man that looked to be the dead man's brother, if Sherlock didn't miss his guess, and he rarely did that.

He stood slightly taller than Sherlock, perhaps a couple inches over six feet, and had short, straight black hair. His eyes were a deep brown that almost hedged into black, and like the man on the floor, wore an expensive tailored American suit. He also smelled of the same cologne as the dead man. The most striking thing about him was a pronounced square jawline. He was obviously a fitness fiend, because he was heavily muscled on his upper body, unlike his rather thin bodied brother.

Lestrade straightened from his slumped position along the wall and stepped forward, holding his hand out. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I take it you are Agent Aaron Verdal?"

Sherlock's brow quirked at the name. "Agent. Hrm. FBI or CIA?"

Aaron looked at him and grinned. "How do you know that? I could be ATF or something else entirely. America does have a lot of agencies."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and hopped down in a graceful leap to the floor, dusting his hands. "CIA."

Aaron snorted and shook his head. "I've heard about you, Mr. Holmes, but it is something different to see you in action," he said, stepping forward and offering his hand to Sherlock, who stared at it before twirling back around to crouch beside the body. Aaron didn't seem perturbed, he actually smirked.

"So your brother was killed by a professional, obviously, with a penchant for the overly dramatic. I suppose you have an idea of why?" Sherlock said, checking over the face for any other evidence he'd possibly missed.

"Honestly, I don't know why anyone would want Charles dead. Me, on the other hand, that's another story. I honestly think they mistook him for me. We do resemble each other…" he said with a glance at his brother.

Sherlock shook his head. "You aren't too emotionally distraught at your brother's death," he said thoughtfully. "You seem to have come to terms long ago that anyone remotely attached to you was a target, yet you still continue with the work you do even so because you enjoy the job too much to give it up."  
Aaron returned the look. "Yes, yes. But my brother and I were…"

"Estranged, yes, I figured that out…" Sherlock said dismissively. "Betrayal of trust, took your significant other while you were on assignment, break up immediate, followed by the current assignment until you were called by the consulate that your brother had been murdered on British soil."

For the first time, Aaron's smile faded and he looked at Sherlock for a long moment. "Yes, you are just as good as I've heard…really, you should be working for us, we could certainly pay more."

Sherlock waved a hand in his direction. "Not about the money. Puzzles. Keeps my mind occupied and off drugs."

Lestrade huffed and crossed his arms. Aaron smiled, moving closer than was strictly necessary to Sherlock who looked up to his much too close face.

"I think I could offer quite a few satisfactory puzzles, Mr. Holmes," he said slowly, eyes roaming the slightly shorter man's face.

Sherlock arched both brows. "Indeed," He muttered and moved away toward the door.

"Check the venting duct, the killer got stuck down toward the basement, equipment failed him and he plummeted down the shaft past the exit point. Collect him and book him. Slightly interesting, but text me with anything above a seven, please, Lestrade," he said, sweeping out of the room.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

The next day, Sherlock woke to the sound of someone beating on the door. He'd actually fallen asleep on the couch for a change, so he sat up and carefully put his violin away in the case and blinked wearily. He thought that this John being gone thing was making him far more sleepy than normal. He snorted to himself as he wrapped his blue dressing gown tighter and headed down to the door. Mrs. Hudson must have been out shopping, he thought to himself. He flung the door back to find himself looking at Agent Aaron Verdal from the day before. He crinkled his brown and cocked his head to the side.

"Agent Verdal, what do you need? Don't tell me you let the murderer get away," he said dryly.

Aaron seemed to not be perturbed by Sherlock's attitude and instead pushed him to the side and headed up his stairs, leaving Sherlock blinking. "Ah, no, come, I want to talk to you more about the case. Seems he was a hired hit man."

Sherlock was slightly annoyed. The American just pushed his way into his flat. He sighed and shook his head and followed the larger man up the stairs. He pointed to the couch and flopped down into his armed chair, and turning to face him. "So what do you want with me?" he said, crossing his legs as he leaned back.

Aaron smiled. "Well, I thought that you might want to help me find the person that hired him," he said, pulling a file from under his trench. Sherlock reached out and took it, pointedly ignoring the fact that Aaron made a point to touch his hand as he gave it to him. If the man were any more obvious it would be painful.

"I thought you would be more than capable of such a thing," Sherlock said with a sigh.

"Perhaps I am, but the person is here in London, and well, I need someone…unattached to the local law enforcement who knows the city and from what I understand, you are that person," he said, with a warm smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I suppose. I have nothing more interesting to do. Do you have a file for me to look at?"

Aaron smiled broadly. "Of course, I'll get it from the car."

"Alright, I'll change in case we need to leave the flat," he said, standing up and heading toward his room.

Aaron watched him for a moment until he disappeared and smiled to himself, a map of the flat being created in his head. This would do nicely. He intended to have an invitation to stay here before the day was over. He went down the stairs and retrieved the files. Sometimes it was too easy manipulating people who were lonely, he thought for a second as he paused outside the door. But this was more fun because he wasn't just lonely, the man was heartbroken, and he didn't even know it.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

By the time dinner had rolled around, Aaron and Sherlock had visited at least five drug dens, and seven more seedy places where someone would go to hire a hitman. They had made contact with the Italian mob, the Russians, the yakuza, and even some odd group of Chinese gangsters, as well as locals. Aaron was amazed at the network Sherlock had. They spent a good fifteen minutes in a back alley talking to a man that smelled of alcohol and feces, but walked away with six possible names and a promise for more once it spread through the network.

"How do you know all these people?" Aaron asked as they got back in the car.

"I listen to people no one else bothers to listen to," he said simply, folding the paper and slipping it into his coat pocket.

"I'm starved, could you eat?" he asked with an arched brow at the thin detective.

Sherlock snorted. "I don't eat on cases," he said finally. "But please, drop me off at 221B and go find yourself something to eat, Agent."

"Oh, come now, you and I deserve to have something to eat. How about it? On me. Buy you anything on the menu…" he said, as if coaxing a child.

"I do not need to have anything bought for me, I probably purchase more expensive wine than your monthly take home pay would cover," he said with a sigh. "But I suppose I will accompany you. Choose whatever you like, I'll remain and we can talk about the case."

Aaron smiled to himself. He realized early on that subtle manipulation was the key with this one. He wasn't like the rest. He was keen, observant, painfully aware of his surroundings, but he was incredibly naïve. And he didn't care for himself. He was an ex-junkie, he'd seen the reactions when they were in the drug dealers' homes, a subtle tick and glance about, eyes lingering on the white powders laid out on the table. He didn't eat, though he could tell he had a good deal of muscle tone, he was thin, like he'd lost it recently, and his ribs were clearly outlined when he moved a certain way. And by the black marks under his eyes, he didn't sleep, and if he did, he didn't sleep well.

He pulled them into a rather expensive Italian restaurant. Sherlock arched a brow and sighed following him into the place. Neither was out of place, Sherlock wore a suit with a blue silk shirt, only lacking a tie, and Aaron wore a suit and tie like he did most days he was on the job. They were seated immediately when Sherlock gave his name to the host. Aaron arched a brow as they sat down. Sherlock sighed.

"I helped the owner out a few years ago with a small embezzlement issue," he said, sipping water from a wine glass.

"Was someone embezzeling from him?" Aaron asked.

"Oh no, he was the one doing the embezzling. I helped him hide it so the mafia didn't come kill him. It was effective. He's since kept clear of illegal activities, of course, the money he embezzled bought this restaurant," Sherlock said, scanning the menu before setting it down.

A moment later a tall Italian man came running from the kitchen and speaking kissed Sherlock on the cheek to which he smiled and nodded as the man rattled off rapid fire Italian. Sherlock responded in apparently fluent Italian, speaking for quite a few minutes back and forth with the owner. Aaron watched with amusement, catching a word here or there he recognized, but apparently, he knew Italian almost as well as a native speaker. The owner clapped him on the back and bid him adieu and said he'd send out a sampler free of charge for them of their best dishes. Sherlock thanked him and he left.

"You speak fluent Italian," Aaron said.

Sherlock nodded. "And several others. I had to learn Serbian not long ago. Not a difficult language. Took about three hours to master it."

"Wait, you mastered a new language in three hours?" he said.

Sherlock thanked the waiter as he brought a bottle of wine. Sherlock poured some for him and Aaron and nodded. "I was distracted at the time, dreadfully long time for such a simple task."

Aaron smiled again, both in a genuine way and at himself. Oh how he had chosen the right person to pursue this time. The chance to bend such an incredible mind…irresistible. A large platter filled with various small portions of about ten different dishes was brought out shortly. Sherlock seemed uninterested in any of it, looking around him thoughtfully.

"Please, will you eat? It would make me feel better about working with you knowing you won't pass out from lack of food…" Aaron said softly, pushing a plate toward him. "And you don't want to upset your friend the owner, he's been watching you since the food was set down. I think he'll be ever so upset if you don't at least try some of what he sent over…"

Sherlock glanced over to see he was indeed watching intently. Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulling over a plate with an elegant looking penne pasta on it and at a bit of it. He'd glance to see the owner grinning ear to ear every now and then. "Such an annoyance…" he muttered as he chewed thoughtfully.

"So, you don't seem to come here often," Aaron said, enjoying a nice angel hair dish.

"No, rarely, I came one time with John, I believe, but that was it," he said, pushing the food around his plate as he thought.

Aaron nodded. "John your boyfriend?"

Sherlock blinked and frowned. "Oh, no, he's my best friend," he said with a smile, a fond one. "I was his best man at his wedding not long ago. He's off on honeymoon now. He used to live at 221b in the upstairs bedroom before I faked my death a couple years ago…" he said, trailing off.

"Oh I remember that, I read about it, and then you weren't dead. Amazing that," he said. "That's why you learned Serbian?"

Sherlock nodded, taking a bit of a spinach ravioli. "So he wasn't your boyfriend, huh? You have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, I guess I shouldn't assume you share my preferences, huh?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "No, I do not dabble in romantic affairs. Too messy, all the entanglements and such."

"You didn't say which you prefer, though, men or women," Aaron pointed out.

"I did not," he commented, picking at another dish. "I have no preference, I suppose. As I told John, I'm married to my Work."

Aaron nodded, and glanced at his empty wine glass. "Ah, look, I've drank all my wine," he said, and grabbed Sherlock's and took a sip, depositing the contents of a capsule in the liquid before he put it back down, the motion so smooth and practiced, not even Sherlock caught him in the act. Or perhaps it was shock that he'd just drank from his glass suddenly.

"I could just pour you another," Sherlock said, tipping the bottle into his glass to refill it.

"Where's the excitement in that? It seems the only way to get a taste of you is to drink from your glass," Aaron said.

Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise, and he took a drink of his wine, blinking at him. Aaron got the feeling he didn't get propositioned very often like that. He couldn't understand. The man was perfectly gorgeous, from head to toe. Perfect in his imperfection. And such lips, he thought to himself as he watched him drink again and his heart slipped to his throat. It didn't take long before he was swaying a bit in his seat with a frown.

"Drink a bit too much, dear?" Aaron asked with a smile.

Sherlock shook his head, as if trying to shake away the buzz in his ears. "Maybe…but…didn't drink that much…"

"Here, let's get you home. Maybe you just don't drink often enough, and you didn't eat much, here I'll have them put it in containers for us," he said, waving over the waiter and watching as he expertly packed up the remains.

He thanked him and pulled Sherlock to his feet. Sherlock was fighting with consciousness. Aaron congratulated himself. That had been far easier than he thought. Now, for the next phase. The whole plan was incredibly carefully constructed and lead to only one conclusion. He put him into the seat and buckled him in, brushing against his lap purposefully, and frowning. Well, may have to provide some drug enhancement for that part of the evening. He headed back to the flat and packed, and helped him up the stairs and let him fall into his bed. He was blinking wearily and muttering under his breath.

"Here now," Aaron said with a smile as he began undressing him.

"Wha…" he asked, looking down as he pulled his trousers away. "What are you doin'?" he slurred thickly.

Aaron had brought in a small satchel and pulled out a syringe filled with something. He flicked it and injected him in the thigh muscle. He flinched and tried to jerk away and stared at him hazily. "Don't worry, just a little something that will make you feel a little woozy, but you'll be fine, sweet. Now, let's deal with this," he said, slipping his black pants off.

Sherlock hadn't minded the coat, the jacket or the trousers even, but having his pants removed, he reacted to that. "Hey!" he almost shouted, and kicked out, nearly nailing Aaron in the chin.

"Ah, ah!" Aaron said, catching his foot easily and spinning his body around until he was fully on the bed. "You don't want to kick your new boyfriend, do you?" he said with a smile.

"I…boyfriend? What?" he muttered, blinking. "Don't have one…what…" he muttered as Aaron crawled on top of him and sat down on his thighs, leaning over and unbuttoning the blue silk shirt slowly, revealing the almost smooth expanse of his chest and belly.

"You are as beautiful as I imagined, body and mind," he said with a smile.

Aaron shimmied down and stared at the obvious disinterest in the whole situation Sherlock had. He huffed. He reached down into his back and pulled out another syringe and administered a dose to a less comfortable spot this time, getting a shout out of his soon to be lover. Sherlock scrambled to try and grab him, to get the needle away, and shortly thereafter he moaned as his body began to respond to the chemical induced arousal.

"There now, that's better," he said, slowly licking at his chest, laving his nipples with his tongue and pinching the flesh.

Sherlock had no idea what was happening. His head was spinning and he couldn't bloody concentrate on anything. Wait, did Aaron inject something into his leg? Then his cock? What the hell was happening… He couldn't grasp anything to even begin to deduce what was happening, but now he was hot and his body was responding where Aaron was licking and sucking at him. He blinked and shook his head, trying to push him off, to tell him no, he wasn't interested…

"You are interested," he said softly and lapped gently at his cock in earnest. Sherlock whimpered. He didn't want to be!

"Stop," he muttered, finally forming a coherent word. "No, stoppit…"

"Shhh," he whispered. "I'll take care of you where that silly John wouldn't. I'll make you feel so good, and then you'll never think of John again. I'll take you to great heights, lover. And you'll love me so much for it…and John will know what he was missing because I'll tell him…"

Sherlock was going numb everywhere, which was a good thing as he felt him ram his fingers into him, pushing and pulling and stroking something that send blinding hot pleasure up his spine. Before long he found himself pressed down onto his stomach, Aaron above him, sending him into a world of blinding white passion that he hated so much, that he didn't want a minute of, but still it came and he fell down onto his stomach, exhausted so much that he barely felt when Aaron spilled inside him and fell beside him, stroking his back and head. He couldn't understand anything he was saying, he couldn't understand any of it, he just wanted to sleep…

Morning found him in a lot of pain. It was like a hangover only amplified, and the rest of him ached so bad he wasn't sure he could move. And there was a weight behind him. He blinked. The last clear memory he had was drinking wine at the restaurant with Aaron and then coming home and…

Everything was fuzzy, but he vaguely remembered sex. He blinked and tried to get out of bed but an incredibly strong arm grabbed him and held him down against the bare chest behind him.

"Where you goin' lover?" the sleep slurred voice behind him said.

"Aaron?" he asked. "What happened? I don't…what…I think I'm gonna be sick," he said, yanking away, or rather being released, finally.

Aaron sat up and smirked as he pulled on his pants and headed down the hall to the kitchen and found the aspirin and a glass of water. He pulled a vial from his pocket and put a couple drops of the clear liquid in it. He smirked as he listened to him retch violently into the toilet and finally emerged with his dressing gown and a pair of pajama pants on a few minutes later, that same confused look on his face. It was always this way the morning after his first night with his lovers. The confusion, shame, and curiosity of what exactly happened.

"Here, you had a bit too much wine, my dear," he said and handed him the pills and the water.

Sherlock stared for a minute then, recognizing the aspirin, took it and swallowed them with the water. He shook his head and sat down on the couch, rubbing his temples.

"We…we had sex. Why did we have sex? I don't…I don't do that, even when I'm drunk…and I shouldn't have been drunk…it was only a few glasses of wine…and I don't feel…hungover…" he said frowning. "I feel…like I did after The Woman…wait…did you drug me?" he said, snapping his head up and glaring at him.

Aaron arched a brow. "What would I do that for? Seems to me drugging you just sleep with you would completely ruin my chances of catching the person who wanted my brother dead, and who may well want me dead too."

It didn't make sense, and now his head felt fuzzy again. What was going on? Was he sick? His stomach certainly thought he was ill. And his head. In fact, everything seemed to be sending signals that he was sick. He laid back on the couch with a groan.

"Come on Sherl, honey, don't you remember?" Aaron said as he flopped down beside Sherlock and tugged him into his chest, rubbing lazy circles on his back. "We got back here and talked and talked about your friend John, and how much you loved him and he left you for that woman and you were so lonely even if you wouldn't say it…" Again, the soothing voice, and it was creeping into Sherlock's very veins, so real so very real at the moment. He was sleepy, so sleepy, and comfortable and warm, and he'd forgotten about feeling ill. "Remember? We talked and talked and you were so glad to realize that I was really interested in you, and things got heated, do you remember that?" he said, soft and strong voice. His head was reeling and he nodded. "And we ended up in your bedroom and I asked if you were sure…very sure…and you told me yes…you remember that, don't you?" Did he? Sherlock couldn't remember much, but if he said that's what happened…surely he wouldn't lie…not when he was so comfortable and warm. "That's it, my dear, that's it…"

Sherlock was floating somewhere between conscious and unconsciousness. He had no idea why he felt so nice and warm, but he did. His heart wasn't aching, and it felt nice for a change. So he smiled into the warm body and nodded slowly as he continued telling him what happened the night before, and the images he spoke became vivid and real and he felt them taking up a place in a small room in his mind palace. He couldn't see it thought, but the outside was marked with a strange symbol, one he didn't pay any attention to, not all. He filed away the events in the small room. Why was it so small? He wasn't sure, but the words changed to images and they changed to memories, and there they were stored, and the more that were stored, the brighter the image blazed on the outside. If he'd glanced he would have recognized Japanese Kanji, two. On the left was the kanji for Lie. On the right, the kanji for Fake.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Lestrade was getting worried when his texts went unanswered for almost a week. Sherlock was not one to ignore him completely, even if he was in a sulk. So he knocked on the door to Baker Street and it was answered by Mrs. Hudson. She blinked and smiled at him but Lestrade couldn't miss the look behind that smile. Something was wrong.

"What's going on? Sherlock hasn't answered me in a week…I had a good case too…" he said, glancing up the stairs.

She nodded. "He's upstairs with _him._ "

Lestrade frowned. "With who?"

"That American bloke, he's been here since last week when they went out, and Sherlock doesn't go out at all, but he comes down and goes out every morning. Sherlock won't even let me in, he keeps the door latched, he never did that before," she said, glancing up the stairs. "When I ask to come in, he says he's busy and he'll ty and come down later. I don't know what's going on, but he's not himself."

"Is he here now? The American bloke?" he asked.

She shook her head. "He went out a few minutes before you knocked."

Lestrade nodded and headed up the stairs and gave a knock. "A minute," came Sherlock's voice.  
He came to the door and saw it was Greg. "Lestrade!" he said, surprised by his presence. "What are you doing here?"

Lestrade glanced him over. He was wearing his blue dressing gown and pajamas, and there was a nasty bruise across his jaw. "The hell happened to you?"

Sherlock snickered and touched his jaw. "Oh, that, nothing, took a tumble down the stupid stairs the other day. Seem to be rather uncoordinated lately. You need something?"

"Um, yeah, you aren't answering my texts…" he said.

Sherlock blinked and nodded. "Oh, yeah, I think…where did he put my phone..." he said, turning and going back into the flat.

Lestrade didn't miss the fact he nearly stumbled in the process of turning around. He didn't wait, just followed him in. He blinked in shock at the state of the flat. It was spotless. Completely and totally straightened and not a thing out of place. No experiments, or equipment, or anything could be seen that reminded him of the place when he'd been there last, the boxes of papers were gone, and the walls had been recovered with tan paper. This whole thing was getting very strange. Sherlock rummaged in a drawer or two looking confused., then looked around the living room. He shrugged at Lestrade.

"Guess he borrowed it…" he said thoughtfully. "Anyway, what did you need?"

"I had a case, but it got solved, I just wanted to know if you were even wanting to help out anymore…" he asked.

"Oh, yeah, been helping Aaron with his case, though, just busy, you know," he said and a goofy grin lit his face and Lestrade had the distinct impression he was on something. But he'd never seen him like this when he was lit. He was usually aggressive and pushy when he was high.

"His case? We caught the guy," he said, looking around again.

"Oh, but he was a hitman. He wanted to find the guy that hired him," he said, wandering into the kitchen and getting a kettle on the stove for tea.

Lestrade nodded. "I use your loo?" he asked.

"Sure, go ahead," he said, and set out two cups for tea.

He went into the bathroom and started searching it for any sign of drugs. After a few minutes, he found nothing but then went to the trash bin. He sucked it up and figured he'd wash afterward. At the bottom he found a little glass vial. He frowned and shoved it in his pocket and flushed the toilet. He heard voices, one Sherlock's and one the American fellow. He washed his hands quickly, but left the water on and listened at the door.

"It's just Lestrade," he heard Sherlock say.

"You don't want anyone in the flat, remember?" Aaron said softly, and Lestrade frowned.

"Lestrade's fine…" he began.

"You don't want anyone in the flat, remember?" he repeated, firmer this time.

"Yeah, that's right, I don't want anyone in the flat, just for us…" Sherlock echoed, and Lestrade didn't miss the hollowness of his voice.

Lestrade exited the bathroom and spoke as he walked down the hall. "Thanks, mate, needed that, too much bad coffee at the Met," he said, looking up to see Sherlock sitting at the kitchen table watching Aaron carefully.

"Detective!" Aaron said cheerfully. "Nice to see you! Did you need something?"

Lestrade smiled. "Nah, Sherlock just hadn't answered my texts, so I got a bit worried about it, is all," he said with a shrug.

Aaron smiled and winked. "He's doing much better, if you know what I mean," he said. "He's such a dear, you know. I can't believe I went halfway across the world to find someone as perfect as he is…"

Lestrade smiled. "Hey, good on ya, mate. And him too. He's needed someone in his life for a long time," he said, clapping him on his back. "But I gotta get going, was just on my lunch and thought I'd check in on him. He's always been good at texting me back."

"Ah, that's my fault, I forget that I have his phone with me half the time. Got a bad habit of putting them together at night then just grabbing them both when I get up," he said with a grin.

Lestrade nodded and waved to Sherlock who seemed lost in thought as he sipped a cup of tea. He headed down the steps and stopped when he saw Mrs. Hudson standing near the door. He shook his head and headed out. What else was there to say? Something is really wrong up there and we both know it? No, he didn't say it but they both knew it. He headed immediately down to the morgue.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

"Molly?" Lestrade called as he came into the room. She looked up with interest.

"What's up, detective? Can I do something for the Met?" she asked, taking off her gloves and leaving the body she'd been checking over.

Lestrade sighed. "No, this is for me. Can you tell me what was in this?" he pulled the small vial out and handed it to her. She frowned. "Sure, give me a minute, where'd you find this?"

"Sherlock's flat, in the trash," he said, and he saw the renewed light in her eyes. If it had to do with Sherlock, she'd do anything.

After an hour she came in with a readout and looked at him and frowned. "First, do you think he's taking whatever was in that vial?"

"He's not right, he's different, almost…I don't know. But not like he was when he was strung out, different than that," he said, crossing his arms and sighing.

She nodded. "Because no one in their right mind would take this voluntarily."

"What?" he asked, frowning deeply.

"It's a mix of things. It has ziprasidone, an antipsychotic that is known to cause increased sleepiness, phenobarbital, which is a known depressant and often has a hypnotic effect, and sildenafil, of all things…" she said, thoughtfully. She saw the confusion. "It's Viagra…" she said finally, flushing slightly as she said it.

"How do I know if he's been given that?" he asked, his mind working on what the hell was going on.

"Well, for one thing, the phenobarbital tends to cause ataxia, loss of coordination, and nystagmus, weird eye movements. The ziprasidone would cause a reduction in aggression, anxiety, would have an overall calming effect, and increase sleepiness by a large degree, but again, depends on the dosage. He could be highly suggestible depending on the dose of the phenobarbital, and how much that affected him… What was in here was highly concentrated, though, so it wouldn't take more than a drop or two and it would take almost immediate effect," she said, looking up at Lestrade, worry crossing her face. "Of course, the interactions and more devastating effects of these together might be worse, and honestly, I'd worry about how much his body could take, in particular his circulatory system, he's got two depressants and the sildenafil…"

"Fuck," Lestrade said, sitting down. "This is all my fault. I'm the one who brought him in on the stupid American tourist. If I hadn't, his fuckin' brother wouldn't have even met him. I've got some research to do. Do you think he's in any danger right now?" he asked.

She shook her head. "Unless I can get a blood sample, I have no idea how much he's been given, or even if he's been given anything at all."

"I think he's got that ataxia thing, he wasn't coordinated well. And I when he answered the door his eyes flicked about a more than I thought normal. I was worried he was strung out on coke, but no, he's being fucking drugged by his goddamned boyfriend," he said wincing.

"Boyfriend?" Molly said, looking at him with wide eyes.

"That's what he said, the American bastard," Lestrade said, heading out and pulling out his mobile as soon as he was out the door.

It rang three times before he heard a cultured voice answer, "Hello?"

"Mycroft, I need your help. It's about Sherlock."


	2. The Serial Killer

Mycroft glanced at the mobile as it buzzed on the desk. He frowned thoughtfully. It was Greg Lestrade. And there was generally only one reason for that man to call him, and it had to do with his brother. He sighed and picked it up.

"Hello?" he said, leaning back and staring at the ceiling, hoping that his brother hadn't fallen into old habits since he lost his John. Really, he should have known better than to have sentiment for someone.

"Mycroft, I need your help. It's about Sherlock," came the expected response.

"Detective Inspector, when it is it not about my dear brother?" he said, nodding as Anthea put his tea down.

"I think he might be in trouble," Lestrade said, and Mycroft picked up easily on the tension in his voice.

Mycroft thought for a moment. "What sort of trouble?"

"A week or so ago, he was on a case with me, I'm sure you remember, the American that was murdered that the CIA came in on?" he said slowly.

Mycroft nodded and shuffled through the files on his desk, as he hadn't closed that one out yet. "Of course, seems he solved it rather quickly, you turned the man over to the Americans almost immediately. There were no complications."

"Well, the brother, the CIA agent, he seems to have…ah…attached himself to Sherlock."

Mycroft frowned. "What do you mean? The agent was killed by the hitman, detective."

"That was the agent's brother, Charles Verdal. At least that's what Agent Verdal said when he came to the scene…" he said, his voice showing the confusion clearly.

Mycroft frowned, shifting and opening the papers and looking over the photos. "The hit was placed on Agent Charles Verdal, CIA operative on a case chasing a serial killer in cooperation with the British government. He was put up in the hotel last week and was waiting contact with someone from our side. The hit was completed before we made contact. There is no record of an Agent Aaron Verdal…at least not officially. I'll put in a couple calls to see what's going on. Does the man appear to be related to the dead agent?"

There was a long pause. "Sherlock said he was his brother, so I don't doubt it. They did bear a striking resemblance but Aaron Verdal was much more built than Charles. Charles Verdal was rather thin."

"When you say he has become attached to Sherlock, that seems to indicate something else," Mycroft said, already typing away instructions for information.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well, he didn't answer my texts for the last week, so I stopped at the flat. Mrs. Hudson was worried, said he hadn't left, and that Aaron had been there since. I went up and he answered the door and he just seemed…off. But not like when he was strung out. Mellow, almost…too quiet. And the flat is completely different, redone and not a trace of Sherlock's experiments or anything. He couldn't find his phone and said Aaron must have it, but didn't seem bothered. I asked to use the loo, just to see if he was on something and I found this vial in the trash so I took it with me, and when I came out Aaron had shown up. He said that he and Sherlock were together, and something about going halfway round the world for someone. The whole exchange was odd."

Mycroft's brow was furrowed. He'd known his brother on drugs. He was aggressive and loud when he was lit. Not quiet at all. "What was in the vial?"

"See that's what has me worried. I took it to Molly to see. She said it was, hang on, let me look, ok, it was a highly concentrated mixture of ziprasidone, phenobarbital, and sildenafil."

Mycroft blinked for a moment. "What?"

"That's what I said, but she said…"

"No, I know what all those things are. I'm…no one would take something like that. Especially not together, I don't even know the reason."

"The mixture was colorless and odorless, she said," Lestrade continued, the sound of paper shuffling in the background. "She seemed to think it could be added to anything and a drop or two would be enough to put anyone in a highly suggestible state. She can't tell if Sherlock has had this stuff, whatever you want to call it, because I'd need a blood sample. And I don't see getting one with Aaron around. And I think he has used it because before I left the loo, he said something to him a couple times about not how Sherlock didn't want people in the flat, and then he repeated it back to him. It was rather…eerie."

Mycroft's jaw was set hard. "Is there anything else?"

"I just…" Lestrade paused. "He had a bruise on his jaw. Said he fell down on the stairs, but Mrs. Hudson said he hadn't been out of the flat in a week. Mycroft I have no idea what's going on, but I don't like it."

"Don't do anything yet, let me find out who this _man_ is first. If there is more to the story than is apparent, we don't want him to do something drastic to Sherlock because an overdose of what you found in that vial would kill him. I'm afraid this man may currently have the upper hand. We may have to change that."

"Thanks, Mycroft. I just…I'm worried…with John gone…he's been depressed and that makes him vulnerable, even if he doesn't admit it."

Mycroft bit his lip. "Please, Greg, take care of him when I cannot. I'll be in touch."

He put the phone down to see Anthea standing nearby staring at her phone and tapping away. "Already sent in the orders, sir. Someone is on the way to watch 221B, someone else to watch Lestrade. Got someone on the way to the American embassy. Anything else?"

"Bring me a fine whiskey, dear, I'm going to need it," Mycroft said, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Sherlock woke with an ache deep in his ribcage. He blinked blearily and slid out from under the heavy arms that were laying over him. Wait, he though as he sat up and winced. Make that aches in several parts of his body. He glanced back at Aaron who was sleeping peacefully and he realized when he slept he looked so normal. Sherlock swallowed rising bile in his throat and stumbled into the bathroom, throwing up violently again. There wasn't a morning he woke up without being sick it seemed, and he had no idea why. His head throbbed endlessly, and he kept having trouble staying upright. It was like he was a teenager again and his body just didn't answer to him like it was supposed to anymore.

He got in the shower and stood with his head against the wall, glancing down and realized why his ribs hurt. They were purple. When did that happen? He frowned, glancing into the room with the markings he didn't know on them, and didn't find anything, but he remembered something, but it wasn't in his room for Aaron. No, this was outside it, screaming at him. He was so confused.

_He was drinking his tea as Lestrade left, and then Aaron turned around and fixed him with a look that made him flinch unconsciously._

_"Sherlock, you know we don't want people in the flat."_

_Sherlock nodded. "I know, I'm sorry, I didn't really invite him in, I was looking for my phone and he just came in, and asked for the loo, and it wasn't like I could send him away like that…"_

_Aaron looked at him for a long moment, then moved forward and pulled the cup from his hand and set it on the table. Oh, Sherlock thought. He was angry with him. Aaron grabbed his bicep and pulled him into the living room and looked down into his pale eyes._

_"We don't want people in the flat. No one."_

_Sherlock blinked. "I know, I'm…"_

_His words were cut off when Aaron slammed a fist into his side, sending him to his knees with a gasp. He couldn't even gather the wits to say anything at that point, pain lancing up and down his right side as he was lifted back to his feet and the same thing happened to the left side, sending him again to his knees. He coughed and blinked, unable to form a coherent thought, let alone fight back. But the strange thing is, the thought to fight back didn't occur to him. Why would he fight his boyfriend, his lover, the only person that cared enough to love him and help him understand when he was wrong? He was the only one that wouldn't leave him, the only one that would take care of him… He wouldn't leave him and go find a wife like John had._

_He looked up to see Aaron undoing his buckle. "Now, you will apologize, properly," he said to Sherlock as he reached out and grabbed his hair._

Sherlock swallowed another round of bile at the back of his throat. He sighed as he grabbed his towel and dried off slowly, but looked up when the door opened. His heart fluttered, more from fear than anything else, he realized.

"Oh, baby," Aaron said, moving forward and touching his left side gently over the purple bruises there. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to get that upset with you," he said softly. "I just…this is our sanctuary, you know, where no one can interfere, and I was so upset that you let someone else in on it," he said, reaching out and cupping his face with deceptive gentleness.

"S'okay," Sherlock muttered, looking away from him.

"No, it isn't, that was too far, how about I take you out for dinner tonight. We'll have Thai, you said you liked Thai food, so we'll go have some, would you like that?" he asked, smiling.

Sherlock smiled a bit. He hadn't been out since their night at the Italian restaurant, their first date together. "That'd be nice, I'd like that."

"Here, I made your tea for you, come sit down and drink it and have some toast. Then I'll go out and buy you something nice to wear tonight. Would that be good?" he asked, stroking Sherlock's cheek again.

Sherlock nodded, his brain buzzing madly that something was really wrong with the situation and he needed to get out of there because this was not a good combination of things. But he slipped on his dressing gown and drank tea with Aaron and ate his toast and jam. He smiled softly as his eyelids began to flutter.

"That's it, my dear, why don't you watch some telly while I'm gone, just relax, and don't worry about anything," he said, leading him to the chair and setting him down.

Aaron smiled and leaned down, kissing his head ever so gently and turned on the telly for him to watch. Sherlock didn't really see what was on it, he just stared, his mind spinning in place, and that small room with the blazing symbols on the outside kept screaming at him to look, just look, but he couldn't. His brain was so muddled and fuzzy…

Before he knew it he felt himself being pulled to stand. He blinked at Aaron. He sounded far away, saying something about getting ready for dinner. Sherlock blinked again. Had he been sitting there all day? The last he remembered was breakfast…and now it was dinner? He felt so lethargic. He let Aaron help him into the clothes, new clothes, it seemed. A pair of black jeans and a blue polo shirt. He looked down. He never dressed like that…

"Perfect, love. Now, let's go," Aaron said, leading him out to the front and putting a short jacket. Sherlock frowned.

"Wha…where's my coat?" he muttered, not seeing the Belstaff he loved so much on the rack.

"Oh that ratty thing? I tossed it, love. This looks much better on you. And I got rid of those silly scarves of yours too. You don't need those ugly things," Aaron said, leading him down the stairs and out the door without pausing to say anything to Mrs. Hudson who was staring as he ushered Sherlock out. Sherlock looked confused when he looked back at her, and her heart leapt to her throat. That wasn't Sherlock. He was never confused…not like that.

Sherlock sat in silence to the restaurant, picking at the hem of the blue shirt now and then. He didn't like the fabric of polo style shirts, so he never wore them.

"What's wrong, love?" Aaron asked, reaching over and taking his hand.

"I just…I'm not too fond of the material in these shirts. Feels…odd," he answered.

"Ah, you'll get used to it. Trust me, it is much better than all those button up shirts, looks much nicer. And I do know what I'm talking about," he said with a grin.

Sherlock felt like he was in a fog as he was ushered again into the eatery. He sat down and watched as the menu was taken away from him and Aaron ordered for him. He frowned as the waitress gave him a questioning look. He blinked and remembered he knew her. He'd helped her once or twice with her son who had a penchant for running away.

"Are you alright?" she asked in Thai.

Sherlock blinked up at her and glanced at Aaron who had his face scrunched in irritation. "I don't think I am, please tell my friend to help me, the yard detective…" he said slowly in Thai, his mind trying to find the language as he spoke.

She smiled at him. "So sorry, I didn't know your friend did not know Thai, I will speak in English, Mr. Holmes."

"You know her?" Aaron asked, his tone accusatory.

Sherlock nodded. "Her son ran away a while back, I helped track him down for her. She asked how I'd been, I told her fine, but you didn't speak the language."

Aaron's face relaxed somewhat but Sherlock saw it. The budding irritation and he knew he was going to regret having spoken in Thai when he did. But what else could he do? He couldn't think, and he didn't know why, and yet he was so convinced about everything Aaron told him and did, he didn't know what to do. He wished John were there. But he didn't have John to help him anymore. He had Aaron now who helped him, told him what he needed to do. He ate automatically, everything that Aaron said to eat, and he felt the waitress's eyes on him. He couldn't remember her name.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Lestrade's mobile rang and he glanced at him, frowning at the unknown number that came across it. He contemplated letting it go to voicemail but he thought he better not. Just in case it was a burn phone used by Mycroft. He hadn't gotten back to him with anything yet about the American and it worried him that he of all people was having difficulty getting information on someone.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," he said as he answered.

"Detective?" came a thickly accented voice. He frowned.

"Yes?"

"I…my name is Mali, I work at a Thai place, and Sherlock came in tonight, and he said that he needed you to help him, but he was confused and his Thai was off and he speaks perfect Thai. I am worried, detective, he is not right…" she said. "He said to call you."

Lestrade rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Me? He didn't want you to call John?"

There was a pause. "He said you, the yard detective. He is scared. I must go."

He stared at the mobile after he put it down. Why would Sherlock ask for him instead of John? He supposed it was normal, in a way. Before there was John, Lestrade was the one to pull him out of the gutter and give him a reason. But Sherlock, afraid of something? His glance fell on the vial again. It was messing with his head. And he knew something was wrong, but with that much psychoactive drugs in him, it was a wonder he could even function. But the question was, what was he going to do? He put his head on the desk.

"What's up?" came Donovan's voice from nearby. She saw the pained look on his face, so she sat down across form him.

Lestrade sighed. "If you had a friend, one who was involved with what you were relatively certain was a domestic abuse situation including being drugged and manipulated but you had no way to legally prove it and take any action, what would you do?"

Sally frowned. "That's tough. Would depend on how close I was to the person, I guess. I might be tempted to do something not within my position as a copper."

Lestrade nodded, twiddling the vial. Sally watched. "Someone I know?" she asked.

He sighed and put the bottle down. "I found this. And this," he said, handing her the read out on the contents, "This is what is inside the vial."

Sally leaned back in the chair and looked at the readout, brows knitting. "What the hell…" she muttered. "That would seriously fuck someone up."

"In your opinion, what would be the purpose of something like that?" he asked, crossing his arms and leaning back. It was a good opportunity to get an objective opinion on it without knowing her who he was talking about.

She looked up. "Well, the victim is obviously male, and someone is trying to ensure manipulation on both the emotional level and using sex to convince him that he's an equal partner in an unequal relationship. There's no other reason for this combination of drugs, to be honest. This would make him confused, easy to manipulate, and compliant, and easy to arouse no matter how little interest in sex he had. Almost like some sort of long term date rape cocktail…" she muttered, looking at the concentrations. "Easy to carry, easy to dose someone with repeatedly to keep them under control, but keeps the memories intact making it easy to convince he was willing to participate in the relations…this is messed up. Like the ultimate control situation, y'know? Some sick fuck to use something like this."

Lestrade sighed. "Thanks, I wanted to make sure I was on the right track. Make sure I wasn't being overly worried over nothing. I can't do anything because I didn't have a warrant to retrieve that, and now I'm fucking stuck on what the hell I'm supposed to do."

"Who is it?" she said, handing the file back.

Lestrade bit his lip and sighed. "Sherlock."

She frowned, eyes betraying the more than small amount of shock. "What?"

"Yeah," he said standing and looking out the window. "And I can't do a damn thing to help him, even though I know what's going on, because if I try, I risk my badge on it."

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Again, the ride home was silent and Sherlock felt his head doing that weird fuzzing in and out thing again. He blinked and they were back home. He sat as the door was opened and looked up at Aaron and tried to deduce something, anything, but it was all fuzzy around him. He yanked him up, his fingers digging into his bicep painfully enough that he gasped. The world spun sickly and he as stumbling through the door toward the stairs. He regained his feet, closing one eye seemed to help for some reason, and headed up the stairs, pausing while Aaron unlocked the flat. He waited for him to go in first, but instead he shoved Sherlock through the doorway.

"Aaron," Sherlock said, stumbling and losing the battle with balance to fall to his knees. "What's wrong? You're awful rough…" he muttered, leaning back on his heels and looking up just in time to see his foot come at his jaw.

He was certain that this perhaps hurt more than the ribs. He felt something crack, and he was flat on his back, moaning and blood was dripping down from his mouth steadily. He swallowed and he came to stand over him.

"You know that I don't like you showing off in front of me," he said low.

"Wasn't…mmph…" he started but the pain shot through his jaw and he wondered if it was broken or dislocated.

"Speaking all those languages, you _have_ to show off how much better than me you are," he said softly, dropping to his knees over his chest.

Sherlock shook his head, all he could do at the moment. The pain was piercing through the haze in his brain though, and things were firing off like mad. He should be fighting him. He shouldn't just let this man, this stranger, walk in and take John's place in his life, what the hell was he thinking? He didn't even _like_ this guy. How could he let him take over everything? He could barely even remember the last week, let alone today…

"Geroff," he mumbled around what he was sure was a dislocated jaw now. "Now, offame," he said, punching out suddenly directly at Aaron's crotch.

Aaron's eyes went wide and he grimaced in pain, falling to the side as Sherlock managed to roll to his stomach and scramble to his feet, wobbling as he did so. His head was spinning, but the pain in his jaw had eclipsed the strange drugged feeling. Right, he was drugged, that explained it…drugged… Then the world tilted at an angle and his face slammed into the floor, more pain blossoming as his nose cracked loudly in the otherwise quiet room. He yelped then, groaning as pain shot through his face from multiple angles.

"You fuckin' bitch," came the low growl behind him as he realized that Aaron had a hold on his ankle.

He kicked out, hard, striking something, his face he hoped, and scrambled forward, stumbling toward the door. If he could get downstairs, get to Mrs. Hudson… That thought was slammed from his mind though as he felt Aaron grab his hips and yank him down onto the floor again, sending his head reeling when it slammed into the floor. He blinked blearily as a kick landed in his side, painfully cracking something. He remembered Aaron wore steel toed boots. He curled in on himself as Aaron reached down and grabbed him by the hair, yanking him to his feet. Sherlock couldn't keep the tears out of his eyes from the stinging in his scalp and the pop of hair coming loose. He didn't have time to think about it as he was slammed into the wall beside the fireplace.

He turned around to swing when a sharp stinging in his leg made him look down. Aaron was pulling out an empty syringe with a grin. "You think you're so smart, don't you?" he said softly, grabbing him by the back of the head and slamming the side of his face into the wall, sending shocks of pain through his jaw and face. He was going to look a bloody mess tomorrow, he thought. "So smart, but look at what you've made me do?"

Sherlock moaned as he felt him unbuttoning the jeans as he was pressed into the wall. Despite the pain, he felt his body reacting, and that he didn't understand at all. He'd never had these kind of reactions, even as a teenager, but here he was, getting a hard on from Aaron unbuttoning his pants. This was wrong! He struggled against him, but the strength was being sapped from his limbs slowly. Before he knew it he was pinned against the wall, weeping in pain as Aaron forced his way into him with no preparation whatsoever, and no lube beyond the blood that was soon dripping down Sherlock's legs.

"Aaron…no…hurts…" he whimpered through his painful jaw.

"You deserve to be hurt," he whispered in his ear and Sherlock sobbed, every breath sending fire through his nose and jaw.

Finally, he was released and slid down the wall, hugging his ribs and sobbing in pain. He thought he'd hurt before. Aaron disappeared and he was so glad, because he didn't want him there right now. An eternity later, he looked up and found Aaron looking down at him with a concerned face.

"Oh, love, I'm sorry, look what happened," he said softly. "Let's get you in hot bath, it will help," he said softly, and Sherlock had no choice but to go with him. What else could he do? Aaron would take care of him, he promised, after all…

As Aaron gently washed him, he told him how sorry he was, that he just lost control. But he reminded him that if he had just been good, and not tried to fight him, he wouldn't have hurt him like that. He didn't like him to disobedient. He was doing such a kind thing and taking care of Sherlock, after all, when no one else would. Sherlock stared across the tub at the tiles blankly, his mind spiraling out of control and down further and further. The little room with the strange red symbols on the door was so full now. Could it hold anything else?

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

As soon as Lestrade sat down in his desk, his mobile rang, and he recognized Mycroft's number. His hand hovered over it and he answered it.

"Lestrade," he said, business as usual, the best way to be, right?

"We have a problem. I'll be at your office in ten. Please do not go anywhere before I arrive." The phone clipped off and Lestrade nodded. Sally walked by and saw that look on his face.

"Need some help?" she asked.

He nodded. "Yeah, stay here, we're about to get a visitor."

She frowned, taking a seat until an impeccably dressed man with an umbrella came into the doorway. Lestrade stood and nodded. "Mycroft, please, sit down."

Mycroft nodded, reaching behind and closing the door and shutting the blinds before he sat down. "I take it you wish to bring the sergeant in on this?"

"I needed an objective opinion," Lestrade said with a sigh. "Sally, this is Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock's elder brother."

She arched a brow and nodded at him. "Nice to meet you," she said, offering her hand.

He glared at her hand. "I wish I could say the same," he said, seating himself elegantly in the seat beside her. "On with the situation. Your dead man was the American CIA agent, DNA tests confirmed."

"So who is this Aaron guy?" Lestrade said with a frown.

"Aaron is the brother to Charles. But he is also the serial killer Charles was pursuing," Mycroft said with a sigh.

Lestrade blinked. "What? How could we not know this?"

"The CIA confirmed the death of their agent, they assumed it was his brother's doing, and the information was classified. Aaron had been a CIA agent along with his brother. His twin brother, actually, fraternal twins, but nonetheless. The murders were done with a startlingly similar cocktail of drugs to that which you found in my brother's flat," Mycroft said with a sigh. "I'm afraid we're dealing with him being his next victim."

"How long before he kills them?" Sally asked.

"A week, sometimes a few days past, but then he disappears, and with his skills as a CIA agent, he has been able to evade capture. That's why his brother Charles was employed," Mycroft said.

"But my report included that Aaron had been on the scene. Why didn't they say anything?" Lestrade asked with a frown.

Mycroft looked exceedingly frustrated with that comment. "It seems that they believed him to have disappeared directly after that, assuming he would flee the area and proceeded to fan out their search, as did the cooperating British agencies. They didn't think he would not only stay in the same area he'd had his brother killed in, but find another victim as well."

"Fuck," Lestrade said with a deep sigh. "So what do we do?"

"I've already spoken with the Americans. They've agreed that we can move on it before Sherlock ends up like the other victims. They all had an escalation of violence before he finally overdosed them on phenobarbital…" Mycroft said with a sigh. "I have men in position around the flat. I'm hoping we can catch him there. Shall we?" he said, standing.

Lestrade nodded. "Let's go, before this gets any worse."

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Sherlock came to consciousness and was overwhelmed with pain. Everything hurt, but his nose, jaw and ribs sent blinding hot pain throughout him and he felt like he couldn't catch his breath. He groaned and tried to get out of the bed before his stomach recoiled, but didn't manage it, only getting to the bin he kept beside the bed as he fell to the floor. The pain was excruciating and he was in tears and coughing thick blood by the time he felt hands on his shoulders.

"Now there, love, you'll be fine…" came Aaron's voice.

"P-please…I need…doctor…" he moaned, the stabbing pain in his side making him collapse to the floor. Every move of his jaw hurt.

"I'll take care of you, love, don't worry," he said, lifting him easily into the bed again, and if he hadn't already been in pain he would have noticed the injection to his thigh.

The overwhelming sleepiness felt nice, though. "What…" he muttered, eyes fluttering.

"You were by far my favorite, love. Really. A shame almost to kill you, but that's how I do things," he said, leaning down and kissed him gently on the forehead. "Now, sleep. No more pain, no more heartache. I've taken care of you, haven't I?" he said, smiling as he dropped something beside Sherlock's hand. Then he was gone.

Sherlock frowned and realized it was his mobile by his hand. He reached out and took it in a shaking hand and pushed the number one for the saved number in the list. He couldn't lift it, though. He touched the speaker button and listened to the ringing.

"Sherlock?" came the voice on the other end. "Sherlock? Is that you?"

Sherlock sighed and swallowed hard. "Greg…" he slurred. "Greg…please…I…" His hand slipped off as darkness crept into his vision.

"Sherlock!" came the panicked voice on the other end, but no one heard in the silent room.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

Lestrade had been almost to Baker Street when Sherlock's number came across and he heard his desperately weak voice. He flew out of the car when it came to a stop, ignoring the shouting and yelling he heard nearby. Apparently, the web of officers Mycroft had sent had caught Aaron leaving the flat with his back and set upon him. No one had been in the flat yet, and he ran at a full tilt toward it, heart in his throat.

What if he was too late? What if they were too late figuring all of this out? He should have come back immediately when he found out what was in the vial, but what would have happened? He hit the door with his shoulder, snapping the lock and snagged to the left, down the hallway and opened the door to the bedroom to find Sherlock completely still under a sheet on his bed. He had to be alive, he just had to be. He yelled into his walkie to hurry the ambulance as he dropped to his knees and flinched at the state of his face. His jaw hung loosely, and both eyes were black and his nose was obviously badly broken. Vivid purple bruises were on his pale arms, and he didn't want to look further.

"Sherlock!" he yelled, hoping for at least some sort of response. "Come on, Sherlock, it's Greg!"

Eyes slowly fluttered as he tried to fix his gaze to him. "Greg…" he muttered. "So tired, Greg…"

"Come on, Sherlock, stay with me. Please."

"He left…" he muttered, rolling his head away. "Always leave….always…"

"Sherlock, come on, mate, you gotta stay with me. I'm here, not leaving at all, always been here, always will be, okay Sherlock?" Lestrade said, brushing a hand over the dark curls sticky with blood from somewhere.

Sherlock blinked at him. "Sorry…" he muttered and his eyes fluttered closed. But the door was open and the medics were in, pulling him away. Before they even got him on the gurney they'd intubated him and were pumping air into him steadily. They were asking questions Lestrade didn't have answers to about what he'd had, how much, and then they were gone, leaving Lestrade standing in an empty bedroom staring at a bloodstained bed.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, startling him. He turned to see Mycroft. "Come, I've had him taken to a private hospital. Come on, they'll know more when we get there."

Lestrade nodded as he let himself be led out of the room and into a nondescript black car beside Mycroft. The car took off and he watched London fly by. Nothing was said as it stopped and Mycroft got out, and Lestrade followed, for the first time, really unsure of what was happening. They were led into a private waiting area and what seemed like forever passed. In reality it was only two hours, but by the time the doctor came into the room both Lestrade and Mycroft were unsettled. Anthea had been in and out several times, arranging things here and there for Mycroft.

"Mr. Holmes, Detective Lestrade," the doctor said with a nod. "I'll cut to the chase, he's in a coma at the moment on complete lung support. The amount of phenobarbital was significant, not a massive overdose, it was administered intramuscularly, so there was no way to pump it. We've flooded him with saline in hopes of flushing it from his system, but we've already had to move him to dialysis because he's gone into renal failure. Shock has set in, and now we just wait. I honestly can't tell you what the chances are. We're waiting on further bloodwork to come back about what other drugs have been in his system and to see if there has been any permanent damage."

"And the physical injuries?" Lestrade asked softly. Mycroft hadn't really had a chance to get a good look at him before he was whisked away.

"Our priority has been to stabilize him, but we did a quick assessment. He has a broken nose, dislocated jaw, at least three broken ribs and a punctured lung, which considering the depression of his respiratory system nearly killed him before they got him here. There's evidence of recent sexual assault and trauma. Those injuries occurred in the last twenty four hours. He has some contusions on his arms, some are nearly a week old, however. He has some older bruising of his ribs, a few days old, I would say. If I weren't aware of the situation, my assumption would be domestic abuse. And from the outside, severe. And that leaves no understanding of what happened mentally with the drugs he was given, especially if the tests come back showing he's had them for a while as you suspect," the doctor said, frowning slightly.

"Since his breathing is stable, he's having his jaw reset, a priority so there isn't swelling in or around the airway. His nose has also been set, and his ribs taped and stabilized to keep his breathing clear as possible. Next he'll have the internal injuries from the assault taken care of. There are also multiple levels, over a period of time in that area. It is obvious that he was assaulted several times over the last week, however, he might have no memory of the events considering the amount of drugs that may have been in his system at the time. We should know more by the end of the day," he said and turned to leave.

Mycroft looked at Lestrade. "Will you stay here?" he said tightly.

Lestrade nodded. "Where are you going?"

"I have to have a discussion with someone in the CIA," he said, and spun on his heel and was out the door.

Lestrade sat down heavily in the chair. Unlike a regular hospital waiting room, this one was complete with plush chairs and couches. At least that was a good thing. He had no idea how long before he would even be allowed to see Sherlock.

He leaned over and buried his head in his hands. Could it be that this had happened in less than a week? And right under his nose? How could he have not seen it? Had it really only been the day before that he visited Sherlock and found the vial and things started coming together? He should have acted faster. He should have slugged the American bastard and drug Sherlock out of the flat straight down to Barts to be check out and they would have found the drugs and he might have lost his job, but at least…

His thoughts were interrupted by his phone buzzing in his shirt pocket. He sighed and answered it. "Lestrade," he said morosely.

"Mate? What's wrong?" came John Watson's voice. "You sound like your dog died."

"John," Lestrade said softly. "You back already?"

"Of course, its been two weeks. I was actually trying to call Sherlock and let him know we were back and invite him over for dinner, but he's not answering his bloody phone…" John said, and Lestrade heard Mary in the background.

"Yeah, about that," he said softly.

"Greg? What's happened?" John said suddenly serious.

"Long story, but the short is he's in a coma," Lestrade said, rubbing his face.

There was a long pause. "What? He didn't overdose? Please tell me he didn't do this to himself…" John's voice was pained.

Lestrade sighed. "He was overdosed but he didn't do it himself," Lestrade said softly. "Phenobarbital."

John gasped. "What? He overdosed on phenobarbital? How the fuck did that happen?"

Lestrade leaned back in the chair. "It started a little over a week ago when he came down for a dead American tourist…" he began.


	3. The Awakening

It didn't take long for John and Mary to show up at the hospital with Lestrade. When they walked in, the exhausted detective was asleep in the chair that he'd been sitting in most the day. John exchanged a glance with his wife. It was just after five in the evening. John moved and shook Lestrade's shoulder gently. He woke with a start.

"Oh, John, Mary, hi," he said with a weary blink. "What time is it?"

"Little after five, have you been here all day?" Mary asked, sitting in the seat next to him and looking on him with concern.

"Um, yeah. Just…was hoping he'd wake up. Took him off dialysis earlier, though, his kidneys seem to be functioning again, so that's good news," he said standing slowly and stretching with a yawn.

"I just can't get my head around this…Sherlock's never been interested in anyone, so how did this bloke end up moving in like this?" John asked, brown furrowing.

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't know, to be honest. By the time I was over there, it was already a week gone, and I wasn't sure exactly how to react. Will he be back to normal now that he's off that drug cocktail? Do you think it caused any permanent damage?"

John shook his head. "I don't think so but…I've never seen someone given that combination of things."

"Well, it figures, for someone to finally control Sherlock bloody Holmes, it took heavy doses of mind altering drugs, and not the fun kind he used to dabble in," Lestrade said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"I guess I'm still confused as to what happened. The man is a serial killer?" John said, dropping to sit down beside him.

Lestrade shook his head. "I don't quite get what exactly happened. The guy used to be a CIA agent, but he snapped or something when he found his current partner with his brother in their bed. He took off, disappearing off grid in America, and his brother, who was also a CIA agent, accepted the task to find him. Then they started turning up a few curious deaths, overdosed on phenobarbital, and obvious victims of abuse of some sort. Family and friends came told everything they'd been happy, in a new relationship the last week, and then everything went to hell. Some got frantic phone calls about being drugged, others about being hurt by this new partner. By the time they were investigated, it was too late. All were Caucasian males with dark hair, of various heights, but always on the thinnish side. A month ago, the trail went cold in America and CIA got a call from some international agency about a similar death in Wales. Charles Verdal was sent over immediately, and had just hit London when he was found dead."

"So the victims looked like this guy's ex?" Mary asked.

"No, they looked like Charles, his twin brother, thin and dark haired. It seemed that was enough of a resemblance for him," Lestrade said with a sigh.

John stood and started pacing. "But he was on the crime scene. That's where Sherlock met him. How the hell did he get in and out of the crime scene? And run all over London?"

"Apparently, 'need to know' didn't include the Met. We weren't told anything, and he waltzed onto the scene flashing his badge and credentials, and no one asked any questions. Why would we? We'd already been told that we were going to be meeting up with a CIA agent named Verdal. And he was damn convincing, even Sherlock didn't pick up on his falsehoods," Lestrade said with a sigh.

There was a long quiet moment until the door opened and Mycroft came in, his fist wrapped so tightly around the handle of his ever-present umbrella his knuckles were white. His jaw was set in a tight line.

"What is it?" John said, standing.

"He's escaped us, during the transfer to the Americans. He had help," Mycroft said and no one felt the ability to breathe for a long moment.

Lestrade, who had stood when Mycroft entered, flopped back down into the couch. "He has to have someone on him 24/7. This guy is going to want to finish what he started. They don't leave them alive."

John had Mary's hand in a tight hold and his body practically vibrated with the tension. "He can't go back to Baker street after he gets out," Lestrade pointed out. "I know your flat doesn't have an extra room, but I've got a spare for when my kid comes to visit. Not that it ever gets used anymore. I'd send him with Mycroft, but we all know his answer to that one," Lestrade said with a sigh, cutting his eyes at the older Holmes.

Mycroft nodded. "That would be acceptable. I'll put men on all three locations though. Will one of you be able to stay here tonight?" he asked, looking them over.

John nodded. "I will. I…I need to be with him right now. I can't help…" John looked lost for a moment.

"John, there is no guarantee that you going away led to any of this," Mycroft said, giving him a reassuring look.

John shook his head. "No, I should have seen how this was affecting him. Him and me, always was, and then I moved on without him. Should have seen it a little more clearly. I've been his only friend for a long time now…and I bet…I bet he felt like I was going to leave him for good on his own."

Mary put a hand on his shoulder. "John, come on, don't blame yourself. This…this man is at fault. But I'll stay here with you, okay? I don't want you alone all night." She smiled and kissed his cheek gently.

He put his hand on hers and nodded. "Alright, Greg, go get some rest, you look like shit."

Lestrade sighed and nodded. "Yes, Dr. Watson. Call if something changes," he said with a small smiled and left the room. John and Mary watched him leave, followed by Mycroft moments later.

John flopped down into a plush couch, his wife dropping beside him. "I just don't get how Sherlock didn't see this guy for what he was," he muttered.

She smiled and sighed. "Even Sherlock can be fooled, John," she said, chewing on her lip a bit.

He nodded. "It took so long, to get through losing him. You know, it was so hard, knowing that I was the single person in Sherlock's life that he had any true attachment to, the one who he looked to for help and to figure out what was right and wrong. He has such a hard time understanding his own emotions, and he's got them, you've seen them. He just…can't handle them, doesn't know how to, and he's like a child. And I ended up being his…what?" John rubbed his nose and leaned back. "His…brother? No, not really…more like a surrogate father, or something weird like that."

"Does that matter, John? He loves you dearly, and you love him. Stop trying to name it, there isn't a name for it. He is like a child. And scared that he's going to lose the person that grounds him. And this bloke used that against him somehow, finding out how much he loved and cared for you."

They both heard the door open and close and the doctor came in, and gave them a curious look. "I expected to find the detective inspector," he said. "You are?"

"Dr. John Watson, this is my wife Mary, I used to be Sherlock's flatmate, his best friend. We're going to stay here tonight.

"Alright, there's a couch in his room if you want to see him. He's still in the coma, though, and he's not showing signs of coming out of it yet. But a familiar presence might help. Stay here while I clear you with security," he said with a curt nod and left.

Fifteen minutes later, John and Mary were being escorted through a security checkpoint into a white hallway and toward a room at the end. The doctor nodded and waited for them near the door. The security officer opened the door and they went in, hearing it lock behind them. The doctor, Dr. Agustus Flemmel his badge said, went over to check the monitors and John and Mary moved over to see him.

"What the hell happened to him?" John breathed, taking note of the state of his face. "I mean, I know, but not the details, just the guy has abused him, but this…"

He reached out and gently moved his head so he could see the injuries. The bruising had turned an angry red along the left side of his jaw, and the right wasn't a whole lot better. The swelling in his nose had gone down a bit. Dr. Flemmel handed him the chart. John tried very hard to keep his doctor's face on as he read the details of what procedures had been done, the contents of the toxicology screenings, and the evidence they'd collected. It wasn't possible.

"The last attack was particularly viscous. It was obvious that he intended to finish him soon afterward. It was consistent with his other victims. The worst was done to them before they were given the overdose. From the levels of the other drugs, we can assume that the drugs were used before then. Of course, we have no idea what kind of psychological state he'll be left in when he wakes up," the doctor said with a nod toward him. "But he has some older bruising and signs of assault, though not as serious as the last one."

"Your prognosis on when he'll come out of the coma?" John said with a sigh, handing back the chart.

Dr. Flemmel replaced it on the foot of the bed. "Honestly, I have no real idea. Two hours, two days…two months. I can't say. Right now, it all depends on him."

The doctor left, and John sighed deeply. He pulled a chair beside the bed and took his friend's hand in his. "Oh, Sherlock. I'm sorry I wasn't there," he said, leaning down and putting his head on Sherlock's hand for a moment. He thought he caught the barest of flickers in those slender fingers and he glanced up, but nothing had changed. His imagination, surely.

Mary put her hands on his shoulders and massaged them gently. The relationship was so complex between John and Sherlock. It was like family, but deeper than that. Sherlock never let anyone into his life, and John was no doubt the first, and if not the first, the first in a very long time. She knew that other women might be jealous of the relationship they had, because frankly they acted more like a married couple than two best friends. But she found it amusing. She was certain that they would have grown old chasing criminals if she hadn't met John. And they would have been happy. Now she only hoped they could be happy again.

Hours later, after an orderly brought them a simple dinner, Mary and John fell asleep on the sofa leaning against each other. Both of them dreamed different things, but neither could shake the feelings of sadness and guilt that had crept into their minds. It wasn't strong, of course, but it was there, in the back of their minds, wondering if they hadn't left him alone, if this could have been avoided. But of course, it didn't matter in the end. Looking back with regret wouldn't change anything.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

"You coming in today?" Donovan asked on the other end of the phone. There was a tightness to her voice that couldn't be missed.

"I'm going over to check on Sherlock and see how he's doing. See if he's woken up yet," Lestrade said, pulling his coat on as he spoke.

There was a silence as he headed to his car. "What, Sally?" he asked finally.

"I think you're worrying too much over the freak. He'll be fine. It isn't like he's got any feelings to hurt if you don't show up," she said with a derisive snort.

"Sally, look, if I hadn't let him on the crime scene, this wouldn't have happened. I have to take responsibility for it."

She huffed a sigh and told him she'd call if she needed him. Lestrade headed over to the hospital, and hoped that something would happen today to show that he'd wake up. As he drove he examined his own thoughts. He'd known Sherlock for a long time now, and he was still amazed at what he'd been willing to do to keep him, John and Mrs. Hudson safe. He let his entire reputation be ruined and then spent two years trying to make sure that they were safe from Moriarty's web. And then he came back when he was needed because someone else was threatening his friends, though in a different way. He had known Sherlock through so much of his life, from the strung out junkie that stumbled into a crime scene spouting off the solution to the murderer before he could stop him, to the man that gladly gave up everything to keep the few people he cared about safe. Through it all, it had been them, in a way. In some ways, Sherlock was more of constant in Lestrade's life than his family. At least Sherlock didn't betray him and sleep around like his wife.

He sighed as he parked the car and headed into the hospital and went past the ssecurity. It seemed unlikely that Verdal would come after him here. But he wondered really, what was his game? He was led into the room and saw that John and Mary had fallen asleep on the sofa together. He glanced over to see Sherlock for the first time since they loaded him into the bus. He grimaced. He was bruised and Lestrade sighed. He saw the chair pulled up next to him, so he sat down and took his slack hand for a moment and reached up and brushed the dark curls off his forehead. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the hand in his twitched and gripped him. He looked down and saw clear blue eyes staring at him.

"Sherlock!" he said with a smile.

Sherlock was confused. He was staring at the ceiling and Greg was there. The last he remembered Greg wasn't supposed to be there and he'd be in trouble for it again. He'd get mad, very mad, and that was a bad thing, a very bad thing. He wasn't at home. He'd get mad about that too. But then, why was he worried about that? Even at all? He shouldn't care…but just thinking about it made his stomach flip.

"W-wha…" he said, blinking and rolling his head to the side. "Where…" he muttered but his eyelids were so heavy.

"Shh, I'll page the doctor, you're fine, and you're in a private hospital. You're safe now. He can't hurt you in here, Sherlock," Lestrade said, grabbing the buzzer on the bedside, but not releasing Sherlock's hand. "John and Mary are here too, they got back yesterday morning and came to see you once you woke up."

Lestrade looked up, a little concerned at the way Sherlock's heart rate was accelerating. His eyes were darting around the room and his breathing was getting faster as he watched.

"Sherlock, don't worry, he's not here, he's not going to do anything to you again, okay? We won't let him, me, John, Mary, we won't let him hurt you again. I'm not sure what all happened, okay? But we know what he was doing. He was drugging you, we don't know how long, though. Not for sure, and there's some gaps you will have to fill in," he said, and heard movement behind him. He looked to see John walking over toward them.

"Oh Sherlock," John said, standing behind Lestrade. "You had us worried."

Sherlock blinked dully up at him. John was here. He wasn't here. Where had he gone too? Why was he here…and not at home…he didn't want him to go to the hospital…there were questions there. Too many questions…and he said they wouldn't understand.

The door opened and Dr. Flammel came into the room and smiled. "Ah, good to see you awake so soon, Sherlock, how are you feeling? We had to intubate you so your through is probably quite sore, I'm sorry about that, but after the overdose there wasn't much choice when your lungs started to fail."

Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to chase the answers as to what exactly was happening. Overdose…he hadn't taken anything…but what… He scrunched his eyes closed and found the doorway, the one with the kanji and he recoiled. "Lies…fake…" he muttered as he reached for the doorway, and opened it to be filled with the memories that he'd locked inside. Were they all lies? They seemed so real…

"What do you mean, Sherlock?" the doctor asked, taking his vitals.

"My head," he croaked, his voice rough. "Full of lies…half-truths…can't tell what is real…what…where's he?"

Lestrade exchanged a look with John. "We…we don't know right now Sherlock. He overdosed you on something, and we nearly lost you. We caught him, but he got away, someone helped him escape before we could turn him over to the Americans," he explained.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered a second and half closed. "Mmm, shouldn't be out, not s'pose ta leave the flat…" he muttered and slipped into sleep again.

Lestrade looked a bit panicked but both John and the doctor looked okay. John put a hand on his back. "No worries, mate, he's going to sleep a lot now, get his body repaired. For the best, really, that way he can sleep through the worst of it."

Lestrade nodded and sighed deeply. "He said he wasn't supposed to leave the flat," he said with a strained look. "So we can assume he was controlling every small detail of his life during that time."

"It's like he accelerated the process of treating him as an abused partner by using the drugs to change his thoughts and convincing him of his willing participation," the doctor offered. "I suspect he'll react much more like a victim of long term abuse than someone who was simply attacked. He may have to sort through what is real and falsehoods that he was given. The amounts of drugs in his system would have left him willing to agree to about anything even if it went against everything he believed in."

Lestrade nodded and sat back in the chair, realizing that he was still clutching Sherlock's hand in his. He didn't bother to let go as Mary and John left to find breakfast. After about an hour, Mycroft came in and nodded an acknowledgement before picking up the clipboard and scanning the chart.

"He woke briefly," he stated, looking to Lestrade.

"Yeah, said something about his head being full of lies and half-truths, and then mentioned he wasn't supposed to be outside the flat," Lestrade said, standing slowly and popping his back loudly in the quite room.

Mycroft nodded and let out a long sigh. "Lestrade, how much do you know about my brother and his relationships with others?" he asked finally.

Lestrade shook his head. "Not much at all. He always said he was more concerned with mental pursuits than anything physical and saw it a waste of time."

"Yes, he did. For that reason, the closest thing to a relationship that Sherlock has ever had is the one he shares with you and John," he said thoughtfully, moving to stroke his younger brother's hair from his face. "His relationship with me is…complicated. And he's tried his best to cope with the world, but it hasn't always worked, since he more than once has sunk into drug use. But the fact is, my brother has never been in a romantic relationship at all."

Lestrade frowned and looked at him. "Wait, he's _never_ had a romantic relationship? Never had a girlfriend or boyfriend or even a one night stand?"

Mycroft nodded. "Not in his entire life. So if your question is if he'd ever had sex, the answer is no. And while Sherlock is not the sentimental sort, to have a relationship forced onto him like this, complete with cohabitation, sex, and loss of control to someone else, I fear he may react badly once his head has cleared. In fact, I'm not even sure that Sherlock has ever even acknowledged his body's sexual desires at all."

Lestrade glanced at him. "Wait, you mean he didn't, you know, have those problems when he was a kid? The whole wet dreams and random chubs?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I believe he was quite shocked when he was reading a book on human sexuality at seven and found out what those particular organs were meant to do. He came to me and pointed to a diagram of the sex organs and told me how ridiculous the whole process of sex was and how useless it was. I tried to explain the concept of reward chemicals and he just stated that there were other ways besides something so very crass and inelegant. Then, he went back to reading. An hour later he came back in complaining about the whole masturbation issue, and looked at me and asked me if I did that." Mycroft had a fond smile on his face. "I wasn't sure how to answer him. I went through the curiosity phase early as well, but Sherlock was positively disgusted by the whole process. From that day on, he insisted it was an unnecessary bodily function that he could certainly do without. As far as I know, he's never even experienced the slightest bit of sexual desire, thus I've come to the conclusion he is a purely asexual. I am not sure how this will affect him."

Lestrade sighed deeply. Great, he was going to have a very confused and distraught man in his flat for who knew how long once he came out of the hospital. He groaned and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Any luck with Verdal?"

Mycroft shook his head. "He seems to have gone underground. We're still working on it, though. The doctor says that should he continue to improve they can release him in a few days. I will send someone over with anything you may need. I've already arranged for a security system to be installed in the house. Now, please, let me know if there is anything else I can help you with, I'll be going…"

"Myc?" came Sherlock's voice and Mycroft started at the use of his nickname that Sherlock rarely used.

He moved over to stand beside his head again. "Sherlock, are you feeling any better?"

Sherlock's eyes were clouded. "Myc, I don't understand…everything is all messed up…" he said softly, brows knitting together.

Mycroft sighed and allowed himself this one day of sentimentality toward his little brother. "Sherlock, you'll figure things out. Just know that this is real, and a lot of what you remember is the result of as state of drug induced high suggestibility. There are thoughts and ideas in your mind right now that are not your own. You must sort them out and delete them as soon as possible."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm…scared he's going to be mad."

"You don't have to be. He's gone, Sherlock. He's not coming back."

Sherlock's brow creased and he looked positively lost for a moment. "But…he said he wouldn't leave me alone again…"

"He was lying, Sherlock, remember?" he said, glancing over at Lestrade, who looked bothered by what Sherlock was saying.

Sherlock swallowed. "What's fake, though…" he muttered… "Is it all lies, Myc? All of it?"

Mycroft's face softened. "I don't know, Sherlock, I really don't. He was a serial killer, and you got caught in the middle. You were supposed to die, like his other victims, but Lestrade got to you before it was too late. He lied to you. He had no purpose other than to use you for his own devices, Sherlock."

Sherlock still looked lost and hurt. "So…he didn't love me like he said."

Mycroft's heart clenched at the broken sound to his voice. "No, but there are people that do, and he probably told you that no one else loved you. It was lies. John loves you, Mary, and Greg there too. Sherlock, and I don't say it, but I do as well. This man, this Aaron…" Mycroft watched as a shudder when through him at the mention of his name. "He wasn't what he said he was. There is more, and it is complicated, and I'm sorry that I wasn't aware of the situation before it happened. But my people didn't know."

Shelock frowned and grimaced, reaching up and touching his jaw. "That hurts."

"He dislocated your jaw. Do you remember when that happened?" Lestrade said, leaning up in his chair. Sherlock nodded. "Yes, I…I spoke to Mali…in Thai. He was mad that…that I was showing off. I tried to tell him I spoke before I thought…he kicked me," he said, rubbing the side of his jaw. "It hurt. I though he broke it. And it…it cleared out my head…I could think proper for a minute, and I wanted to get away from him right then…and knew I needed to…but he had me pinned down and remember…I punched him in the groin and got to my feet…I was almost to the door when he grabbed my ankle," he said, reaching up and touching his nose. "I fell and that's when my nose broke. He was mad…so mad…" he spoke with his eyes widening. "I don't think he'd been that mad before…but I never tried to run…never thought of it for some reason. Why didn't I? Why'd I just stay there instead of leaving?"

"Sherlock, you were drugged to the gills. It was a wonder you were even conscious, let alone able to consider doing anything but what he said to do," Lestrade said, taking his hand again. "How did this all start, Sherlock? I need to know that much."

"The Italian restaurant, where I helped Devon get out of the mafia…we….we were all over the back allies and my network all day, looking for the hitman's boss…and he wanted to eat and I treid to tell him to take me home but he was driving, so I couldn't do much. Then he…" Sherlock frowned. "He drank out of my wine glass. Made some lewd remark when I told him I bought the bottle so I could fill it. I started feeling weird and he said I drank too much. But I didn't I know I didn't…and I said so but he said no, I'd drank too much…"

Sherlock swallowed then, looking up. "That was real. I know that was real. It wasn't in the room with the lies… I don't know what happened, I just remember being scared of him, and trapped, and he…" Sherlock paused, face twisting in something between disgust and fear. "The bed, he took me there…and told me things and…" He shook his head. "I asked him the next morning what happened and why he was in my bed, and I felt so sick. He said we'd talked about John and how he'd abandoned me for his new wife, and how I told him I needed someone…but that's not right because that's not what happened, I don't _remember_ that but I do. How can I remember it and not remember it?"

Lestrade squeezed his hand. "He was giving you a drug mixture. It made you very sleepy and quiet, and it made you believe the things he told you. With your brain, I imagine the things he said took on a very lifelike quality. Do you know when he gave it to you? It might have been in a drink or food."

"The tea, he made me tea every morning and would get very upset if I said I didn't want it," he said and his hand went to his side automatically. Just as Lestrade thought. He'd started hitting him almost immediately to get him in his control. Sherlock would touch whatever he'd hurt whenever he spoke about it.

"I'm sure that was it, Sherlock. What other things did he tell you?" Lestrade said, leaning a bit closer and eyeing Mycroft who was watching him across the bed.

Sherlock swallowed, closing his eyes. "He said that no one was to come in the flat…it was…it was our sanctuary, so when you came by, he got really upset…" he said, and again, he cradled his arms around his midsection with a frown. "But he said he was sorry, and that's when he said he'd take me out for the Thai food, and then…" he looked down to see his hands were shaking. "I'm so confused, I don't like this," he said finally, running his hands over his head.

"I want him still, why do I want someone who did those things? That…oh," he said with a groan and a look of pure emotional pain passed his face. "I don't want to think about it," he said, eyes closing. "Not now," he said. "I'm going to sleep," he said finally and rolled to his side with some effort, hissing as he jostled the ribs that had been damaged. But a few moments later, he was sleeping somewhat peacefully.

"I'm going, we have to find him," Mycroft said, turning on his heels and leaving abruptly.

Lestrade leaned back in the chair and ran his hands through is graying hair. He wondered how he was going to get Sherlock through this. There was a gentle knock and the door opened revealing a smartly dressed woman with long blonde hair and glittering blue eyes behind a set of wire framed silver glasses. She wore a dress suit of a sensible gray with a pair of black flats.

"Detective inspector Lestrade," she said, glancing over at the sleeping form. "May I have a word with you? My name is Dr. Annastace Clearmount. I'm the psychiatric consult for this floor. I understand that you will be taking Sherlock in until the danger to him has passed."

Lestrade nodded. "I have the room and I've known Sherlock a long time. And I also don't want to see him back on drugs because of this."

She smiled gently and they sat down on the couch furthest away. "Now, I need to make sure you are aware of some of the things you should expect."

Lestrade was pretty sure that he knew what was coming, and none of it was going to be pretty at all.

"First of all, as a male victim of sexual assault, he may become aggressive. It often happens. He also may take that out on anyone around him. Especially since he was convinced that he was willing to participate in his own assaults. He'll have to come to terms with the fact that he was drugged, and thus was not consenting. He will have been told that he agreed to what was done to him. He had no ability to fight off his attacker, nor even voice to tell him no. He will have a hard time with that.

"The emotional abuse may be harder to deal with. No doubt he was convinced of his position as inferior to this man. We don't know the extent, but the room is recorded, so I was listening in on the conversation you had with him a little bit earlier. I'd expect him to lash out, and either try to escape contact with others or seek it out actively," she said with a nod.

"Seek it out? Sherlock? He never seeks out contact with others."

"He's had a severe trauma. He may need to feel 'safe contact', meaning being touched or held without being hurt, or without any expectations placed on him. No doubt, the only times he was touched by his abuser were to initiate a sexual union or to hurt him, or to 'make up' for hurting him. And he may become sexually excitable because of his previous inexperience. He may seek out someone to have a safe sexual encounter with, and he may question his sexuality. I believe his brother termed him as an asexual?" she said.

Lestrade nodded. "Yeah, he's never been in any kind of relationship, though he does get on better with blokes than women, not that he ever gets along well with anyone particularly well…"

She nodded. "He might lash out, yell, and try to force you away 'for your own good'. Watch out for this, because it is essential you not abandon him at any time he becomes emotional. From what I've gotten from others, he doesn't show emotion often. When he does begin to display them, they may be erratic and unstable."

"So, he'll basically try and piss me off like he always does?" he asked, drolly with an eyebrow cocked.

She smiled. "I'll try and work with him before he's released, but considering his views on therapists, I'm not sure I'll be able to do much good."

"That's an understatement," Lestrade said with a sigh.

-oooooo-OOOOOO-oooooo-

"What do you mean?" came the abnormally high voice across the phone.

"Just what I said. I doubt he'll be doing anything soon," answered the man on the other end. "This guy fucked with him pretty good."

"He had no right to _touch him._ "

"I know, but…"

"No, no, he is _mine_. That is all there is to it. It is not up to anyone except _me_ to hurt him. You will find him. And you will bring him to me. And I will deal with anyone who tries to interfere in what is mine."

"Yes, okay, but Mycroft's men can't even locate…"

"Do I sound like I care what dull, boring old Mycroft can do? I'm telling _you_ to find him. I will destroy him completely for _daring_ interfere with me. What did he do to him?"

The man holding the mobile cleared his throat. "He's beat up good, but I guess he drugged him and was using him, manipulating him, feeding him false information, you know, abusive partner behavior stuff…" he said, hoping he didn't get an explosion from the other end.

"What?" came the all too calm response.

"He was living there, at Baker Street, guess he had him all locked up like little princess in a tower, not letting him out, and you know. Taking advantage of it."

The silence on the other end was somehow worse than what could have been said. "So he ruined my pet."

"I…I guess you could say that…" he said tentatively.

"I want him. Here. Yesterday."

The line went dead and Sebastian Moran ran a hand through his hair slowly. Fuck, he did not want to be in that bastard's shoes when Jim got ahold of him. Not at all. Jim Moriarty was nothing if not possessive over his playthings, and he was adamant that the Virgin would be his at all costs. And after the game on top of Bart's, he'd been planning a big reveal soon. But now, plans had to change. And he was going to end up revealing himself much earlier than the plan had entailed.


End file.
